


Excuse me while I slip into the great divide

by How_To_Be_A_Fangirl_101



Series: I've Never Been to Georgia [1]
Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: 'star'ring Lucifer the BAMFS (Badass Morning-fucking-star), F/M, LITERALLY, Lucifer Feels, Whump, and Neil Gaiman as God, any and all puns very much intended, attempts at humor, bear with me as I describe things I don't understand, douchy angels, fighting one's inner demons, good angels, major character death but not, no not you Maze, post 3x24, slight crossover with Good Omens, the Douche is not a douche, the flaming sword, this is the one where I go overboard with non-spatial space descriptions, you'll see - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-04
Updated: 2019-02-07
Packaged: 2019-10-22 11:18:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17661560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/How_To_Be_A_Fangirl_101/pseuds/How_To_Be_A_Fangirl_101
Summary: The feather didn’t glow. He was here, kneeling in the mud next to these humans who were his friends and the feather didn’t glow. He was here, putting divinity at risk of further discovery, and the feather didn’t glow. He was too late. And to add to the all-around general unfairness of the situation, he could tell that this was not an ordained death, a natural death – no, it was much, much earlier than it should have been.Dan was rocking her body back and forth now, whispering into her hair and weeping silently. Lucifer felt disconnected, like the real him was spinning circles somewhere over his head. Chloe was gone. Gone to heaven where he would never see her again. Well now, that wouldn’t do, now would it?





	1. Passage 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title is mostly from Walk the Moon's "Kamikaze".

 

 

 

 

In the beginning, there was light – pure, endless light. And there was love, just as deep and infinite as the light. That was what he came from, that softness, that pervasive sense of utter belonging and peace. Try as he might, nothing he has ever experienced since has ever come close to what his birth was like. The light was Mother, and the love Father. It was just the three of them, and then there was siblings, others like him. And he loved them, his brothers and sisters. They flew together, played with the building blocks of creation as their Parents watched and, occasionally, guided. He was the one to create the stars, to light them from within and help their fires burn against the deepness of the universe. Mother and Father had more children, who burned less bright than the First; they sang, new voices rising and mingling with the elders, and everyone loved. He was content; he was serving his purpose – _Lightbringer, and the natural end of each light_ – collaborating with his siblings to create even better and even brighter facets of creation. He led the golden choirs and sang of his love; he was the brightest, the most beautiful, the most loved; and he loved depthlessly in return. Everything was perfect because everything was perfection.

 

And then there was a schism, a break that sent shivers to the ends and corners of the entire Everything. The angels shook, while their elder siblings stood watch. Mother and Father, intertwined since ever, broke apart. Mother withdrew into silence, Father withdrew into creation. He and his siblings took pains to be dutiful, to be perfect, to not create another schism. And then, there was more “siblings” as Father put it. Mother did not approve. Occasionally, like all of his siblings, he would go to these _humans_ and watch them, trying to ascertain just what made them so important to his Parents. The humans were tiny, constantly gawking at the wonders of creation and acting like they were sovereign. No celestial light shone from them, and their voices were weak and wavering. That is why he agreed when his Mother sent him to test their devotion. Of course, they failed, and while they were punished, they were also given a gift – free will, the ability to decide things for themselves.

 

He did not notice at the time, but there was a small ripple in the universe that was sent out when he realized the importance of that gift. And he began to ask himself why he and his siblings were not allowed the agency that the mud-men were given. When he came to his Father with his confusion, there was another terrible break in the universe, roaring light and, for the first time in his existence, an absolute lack of love. The relentless tearing continued even after his wings were broken by his enraged Father and kicked off the edge of his forever home by a brother; it only stopped when he landed – crashed, _struck_ – another plane of existence. The place was empty, and the broken angel wept for the love he had lost, the home he had forsaken, and the angerhurtwhymeIlovedyou that now defined his place in the universe. In his pain, he lit up the ashen ruins of his new dwelling, sparked fires that raged and ravaged and burned eternal. For ages he stormed, until he noticed that there were now denizens habituating in the wake of his destruction. Souls, trapped and tormented – he took his suffering out on them, until they were twisted and dark to fit with their abode and set them on each new arrival. They served him, completely and in a mockery of the love he and his siblings gave to their Father. There was one _demon_ that obeyed him like he had once obeyed, and she swore fealty to him at his bequest – at least in Hell one cannot fall from favor because there is nowhere else to fall to.

 

And things continued in this vein, until, in a fit of unrest, he came upon a soul that lifted itself out of Hell by singing. Their music had changed, become something more. There was no music in Hell, not for him – he had not lifted his voice since the choirs of his brethren. Spite had him burst from Hell with his demon, trailing smoke and flame, breaking through into the humans’ plane – another shudder through the tuning fork of creation. And then, still burning, he looked up at the sky and found that the humans’ world was based around what had been his favorite star – and he promptly flipped his Father the bird, cut off his remaining connection to Him, and started singing the most ironic and irreverent songs he could find.

 

 

 

Those schisms in reality were unmistakable, world-rending, an indescribable feeling that sweeps, weeping, through every corner of every thing. And it was dangerously close to what he felt the moment he realized that Detective Chloe Decker saw his devil face.

 

 _/`\\_

 

Chloe, unable to blink, barely able to breathe, was only able to say, dumbly; “It’s all true.”

 

_Oh, god. Oh – God. He exists. And my partner’s actually the Devil._

 

He didn’t seem to know what she was getting at, so she expanded on her previous assertion by following up on it with an emphatic “Holy shit. Holy _fuck_.”

 

Frowning, he stared at her a bit, until it seemed to click. His hands flew up to touch his cheeks and he let out a high-pitched shriek that would have made her laugh if she wasn’t having an _existential crisis of the highest degree at the moment_. He promptly wavered back into his usual visage and began pacing angrily back and forth. “Oh bloody buggering hell-fuck! Of course you find out like this! It couldn’t have been the wings, oh, nooo, it had to be my Dad-damned face!”

 

A lot of things suddenly snapped into place for her. One, Lucifer was Lucifer. Two, the dad he always grumbled about was Dad with a capital D. Three, Heaven and Hell existed. Four, the bloody feathers strewn about the place made a whole lot more sense. There were more, but she didn’t acknowledge them right then. “Wings? You – you have _wings_?”

 

He stopped his pacing – apparently, he had forgotten her for a second. He looked at her carefully and stood completely still, stiff as if a single motion would set off a nuclear bomb. She wasn’t sure it wouldn’t. After all, it turned out that church might’ve been a good idea all along and maybe she should read the Bible through all the way.

 

“Yes?”

 

“Oh. Okay. That’s – scars?”

 

“I had them cut off.”

 

“Mm-hmm. And they’re, they’re …?”

 

“They’re back, yes. Are you alright, Chloe?”

 

He almost never used her name, only when things were serious. Right now, she supposed it was quite serious. “Um. I’m. I’m. I need to sit down.”

 

She lowered herself jerkily to the stairs, then slowly bent to put her head near her knees and tried to remember how to breathe without screaming. _Compartmentalization. Put it all in a box, lock that box, hide it under a rug, and then put a piano-not-a-piano put a dresser over the rug_.

 

“Do you need me to leave?” He sounded farther away.

 

“Yes.”

 

“Very well. Goodbye, Detective.” He sounded further away – emotionally – and he said it like it was forever, something he _would_ know.

 

“Wait, L …” Her voice cracked, but she cleared her throat and tried again. “I-I’ll call you. Sometime. We’ll talk, yeah?”

 

“I will answer.” He left then, leaving behind broken _feathers_ , broken bodies, and a very broken Chloe.

 

 _/`\\_

 

Back at his penthouse, Lucifer swore in all the languages he knew until he ran out of expletives to say. Then, he drank all of the bottles on his wall and all of them in his bar downstairs. Thusly fortified, he dug all of the bullets out of his wings and then drank all of the bottles in Lux’s storeroom. After that, he methodically smashed all of the empty bottles against the wall of his living room.

 

It was all his fault. He had killed a human – granted, a despicable human that wasn’t altogether human, but a human nevertheless. He had erred, allowed his guilt to erode his control and awareness. Chloe had seen; she had _understood_. There was every chance she would shut him out of her life, run away like he had. After all, he was the root of all evil, the cause of every little suffering inflicted since the beginning of time immemorial. He was a monster, evil; pain and torment were his lot. It was inevitable. He will lose her just as surely as he has lost everything that has ever mattered to him. And he would let it happen without interference or meddling. It had to be her choice – she had the right to free will more than he. He couldn’t allow himself to hope otherwise; it would only hurt more when it never came true.

 

And he waited. In the same spot, slumped against the wall. Didn’t sleep, didn’t eat, didn’t drink, didn’t breathe. Those were all unnecessary habits he had formed for earthly living. He waits. Time is only precious when it can run out.

 

Then, the phone rings. He had been staring at it for the past two weeks, so he picks it up before the first ring fades.

 

“Lucifer?” Not her. The Douche. “Something’s happened to Chloe.” He was panting, voice shaking.

 

“Explain.” Voice like a whip. Immutable. Stinging.

 

“W-We were just bringing in a perp! He, oh God, h-he had a gun. Fuck! Didn’t see it. She got shot. It – it’s really bad.”

 

“Where are you?”

 

“A warehouse, down by the river. She told me to call you first. I – hello? Lucifer?”

 

Lucifer had already hung up and was across the city in barely a second. Finding them took longer, too long. Dan was still clutching his phone, but not for a call – in shock. She was slumped against him, blood pooling underneath them. He lands, not bothering to put away his wings.

 

Dan looks up, blinks, sets his jaw, and redoubles his efforts at tending to the wound. There was a litany of nonsense coming out of his mouth that Lucifer didn’t listen to as he plucked out a feather and set it on her wound.

 

“Oh, man. Of course you’re the fucking devil. Shit, this day isn’t doing anything by halves, is it? C’mon Chloe. You’ve got to hold on so you can laugh at me later for being the last to know. Of course I had to call him first, never mind the ambulance or the freaking station. C’mon, Chloe. Trixie needs you here.”

 

The feather didn’t glow. He was here, kneeling in the mud next to these humans who were his _friends_ and the feather didn’t glow. He was _here_ , putting divinity at risk of further discovery, and the feather didn’t glow. He was too late. And to add to the all-around general unfairness of the situation, he could tell that this was not an ordained death, a natural death – no, it was much, much earlier than it should have been.

 

Dan was rocking her body back and forth now, whispering into her hair and weeping silently. Lucifer felt disconnected, like the real him was spinning circles somewhere over his head. Chloe was gone. Gone to heaven where he would never see her again. Well now, that wouldn’t do, now would it?

 

He grasps Dan’s shoulder, shaking it. “Dan! Dan, I need you to listen to me.”

 

“S-She’s dead. O-oh, _God_. Trixie.” The man sobbed.

 

Lucifer shook harder. “Listen! I’m going to get her back.”

 

Dan shook his head softly, more in denial than anything else. “How?”

 

“That doesn’t matter. Now, have you called anyone else?”

 

“N-No. There was no time.”

 

“Good. Don’t. I need you to hide her until I come back. Keep Trixie home from school, too. I’m going to have a brother of mine and one of my demons come and keep you all safe. Do you understand, Daniel?”

 

“I-I think so, y-yeah.”

 

“Very good. I’ll take you home.”

 

 _/`\\_

 

He taps into the nexus of angel-minds linking together; he usually keeps it muted in the background, but now he tunes it to a specific frequency.

 

_Aziraphale._

 

_Lucifer? What –_

 

_I need you and our mutual infernal friend Crawly to get over to Los Angeles._

 

_Who’s Crowley? I mean, if he’s a person, or – oh. Um._

 

_You can’t lie over Angel Radio, Az, and you’re a worse liar than most._

 

_What do you need?_

 

_Protection for a friend and their kid. Just until I get back._

 

_Where are you going that – oh no, Sam – sorry, old habits. Please tell me you’re not going to Heaven. They’ll kill you before you reach the gates. And I thought you didn’t have wings anymore?_

 

_I’m not going to Heaven._

 

_Brother, you’re worse than me at lying. Just – just don’t die. And promise me that what you’re doing is worth it._

 

_It is. Oh, and tell Crowley that this will cover him stealing my car._

 

 _/`\\_

 

He stands guard outside Penelope’s house, where Dan had holed up, waiting for his brother to get his feathery behind into gear. Just like all the other critical points in his life, Amenadiel doesn’t answer, so he guesses that the firstborn angel has better things to do besides stop Lucifer from setting off half the fire alarms in the city by accident. Good thing he trusts Az more. There’s a _whump_ , and an angel and a demon are standing in front of him, facing towards the house.

 

“About time.”

 

Crowley flinches magnificently, then turns around and blanches. So does Aziraphale.

 

“Brother, you look a little … um, _glorious_.”

 

“So, no different than usual, then.” He jokes, and laughs at his own joke, because if he doesn’t, he might slip and blow up the block.

 

“Well, your eyes are, um, blazing with Heaven’s light. I think Crowley’s having a fight or flight response, actually.” The demon in question was edging behind Az, looking petrified.

 

“I apologize. It’s been a rather trying day.” Strange that Grace was leaking; usually it would be hellfire that seeped through his control.

 

“Uh, yeah, no problem, Boss. So, this is the favor?” Crowley almost squeaks, before rallying admirably and pointing to the house.

 

“Yes. You two are to guard the humans inside. There might be some meddling forces that could try to do something while I’m … taking care of business. Both sides would want a chance to attack anything I hold precious, so be aware that brothers-in-arms might swing by.”

 

“Got it.” Both nod and affirm at the same time. Cute, those two.

 

“Good. I don’t know how long this will take, so feel free to raid my bank accounts or my club for anything you might need for yourselves or your charges.”

 

And with that, he leaves them both behind. It’s been far too long already, and his wings itch viciously, ready to fly and fight in equal measure.

 

 

 

 


	2. Passage 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> McMoni, you're in luck! This chapter's a bit shorter, but I ended it at where I felt it was natural. Also, I forgot to mention last chapter that you may notice that the grammar is a bit off at times -- misplaced commas, words mashed together. Don't panic; most of the mistakes are for effect, like pauses when you talk, or describe feelings rather than ideas.

 

 

 

 

The flight to Heaven’s plane is a long one, and then from there to the Silver City is longer still. But his wings are as strong as they were when he raced among the silver spires of his earliest home, and they carry him unquestionably, indubitably. Having them back is like slotting together a long-broken bone back into place. He wants to hate them, but there is no room in him for that – there is only focus and hell-bright anger.

 

He careens through the border of the earthly plane in a sudden break, like glass bent until it shatters, and is welcomed back into the Void with its trademark soul-gnawing ache. It isn’t quite cold, nor dark – rather, it is devoid of all sensation while being devoid of even that; the Void is Nothing, and falling through it had made even Hell a relief. Being in it again, he can’t quite tell if he is falling or flying, but he is headed the right direction so it doesn’t matter anyway.

 

The barrier between Void and Heaven is much more is just that – a barrier. The one around Earth’s plane is a strand of hair in comparison. Unless one is a human soul bound for eternal paradise imbued with the divine strength to break through, this one is exceedingly difficult to penetrate. For him, though, lit with angelic fury and demonic resentment, it is simply a matter of smashing his power against the barrier until it cedes to his will. The task is made easier as he had never really been banned from returning to Heaven, merely warned against it with the threat of the entire Heavenly Host.

 

The obstacle tears under his onslaught, and he is spit out into one of Heaven’s numerous corridors. Behind each door is a soul creating its own version of Heaven; but each pocket interacts with all the others. He throws open a door, and much like with the hive of angel minds, he navigates the nexus and searches for her. She is not there. Since she must be in Heaven, she must be in the Silver City; if she is there, then dear old Dad must have her. Swell. Seeing as how he had missed millennia of family Christmases, they were due for a reunion.

 

With a snap of his wings, he is above the cloudlike fog of the interconnected Heavens. In the distance, glowing like a poncy sun, is the real City of Angels. Of course, he can’t really see it, since the human Heavens are vast and almost infinite, but he can feel it – like metal fillings being poured on his wings while being magnetized. It radiates every stereotypical evocation of home at once, but to him, it is almost unfamiliar and reminds him of the entirely human feeling of being hotcoldshivering. He can’t tell if it’s inducing some kind of pain, or if he’s in the process of losing some vital part of himself. Ah, the wonders of house and home.

 

He spends most of the flight in a fugue state from the strangeness. The Silver City now looms ahead of him; the massive spires they used to run flying courses between, the “nests” in the holes of the spires, the not-quite-silver-not-quite-gold tangible light gleaming from every surface, the shapes of his brothers dotting the scene. And, oh look; there’s the spot his Father disowned him, that’s where Michael literally stabbed him in the back, and, of course, that’s where Father broke his wings and where Abdiel kicked him off the edge to fall for and in infinity.

 

At the very center, there lies a building resembling a church; it’s not really, but it’s where Father dearest holds audiences and generally lives; there are convenient stained-glass windows in the audience chamber. He divebombs the closest one and breaks through in a hail of shattered color like a paint-filled shotgun blast – and manages to land on his feet with his wings flared in warning. 10 points.

 

There are hundreds of angels staring at him, completely blown away. He fixes his cuffs, slicks back his hair, and saunters down the aisle. One angel scrambles his courage together – moving to attack him and shouting, “Death to the Betrayer!”, which earns him the prize of getting personally acquainted with the immaculate faux-floors. None of the others move against him, but they mutter among themselves. He offers the room a predator-sharp grin, all teeth and threat. In his own time, he reaches the throne, which he had been avoiding looking at for obvious reasons.

 

“Hello, Dad. Been about, oh, several eons, give or take a few thousand eras.”

 

“My son.” Today, God is a middle-aged man with tightly-curled hair. Lucifer once again tries to not stare directly at the gently glowing figure.

 

“Ooh, nice to get a response, for once.”

 

Oxygen immediately depletes from the room – not that it had any before – as the angels all collectively inhale from the sheer audacity. Sheer audacity is kind of his thing, and if they haven’t gotten it by now, they’re probably hopeless.

 

“Why have you come here?”

 

“Something of mine was stolen from me, and I’m going to get it back. If that means an interdimensional war, so be it. There, nice and simple.”

 

“And what could be so valuable to the Devil that he would wage war on Heaven?”

 

“Well, to be honest, even stubbing my pinky toe is enough at this point.” One of the angels, Jophiel he thinks it is, smothers a chuckle, and is rebuked in silent glares. “But that’s not it. No, I’m righting a wrong, reversing a hasty judgement as it were.”

 

“A judgement of mine? You believe a judgement of mine to be undeserved?”

 

“I take umbrage at most of your decisions now, but I couldn’t care less if it was your doing or someone else’s. If it wasn’t you, then point me in the direction of the one who did and I’ll be off, hopefully with their wings and head to mount on my wall.” There’s a shuffling of knifed wings, instinctive unease piercing the air.

 

“And why all this rage, all this destruction and vindictiveness?”

 

_Shit_ , he thinks, _vulnerability in front of potential enemies_ , and tries to say nothing applicable to weakness, just possessiveness. “The stolen item is one of infinite value to me. I would brave the most liquifying pits of Hell and the sharpest edges of Heaven to get it back.”

 

“Would you return to Hell for the rest of your existence?”

 

He doesn’t so much as hesitate. “Yes.”

 

“Would you return to my flock for the rest of your existence?”

 

Once again, “Yes.”

 

He chances a quick glance, and God is thoughtful.

 

Of course, that is when Michael, Camael, Raguel, Kushiel, and a handful of other angels burst through _another_ window, causing all chaos to break loose. Some of angels tried to fly out of the building altogether, some took shelter pressed up against their Father, some joined the merry band of marauders in trying to eviscerate Satan, the eternal Adversary. It wasn’t much of a battle; clearly God’s soldiers didn’t train much since he was thrown out, whereas he had been constantly fighting in Hell to keep his authority and had kept his skills sharp on Earth. The archangels held themselves back, prowling around looking for an opening while throwing numbers at him – except Raguel, who nobly threw himself into the fray and clonked himself over the head with his own sword; always more of a philosopher, that one. The poor angels didn’t quite know what to make of him when he didn’t run away from a naked blade and used techniques new to the last few thousand years. The only problem he had was knocking them all unconscious; an angel who dies in Heaven dies for good, and he’s not heartless enough to kill them for poor generals.

 

After the whirlwind of opponents, there is only Michael, Camael, and Abdiel – and of course it would be those three; of them, Michael was the one who might overpower him, Camael was the one who bayed the loudest for his blood, and Abdiel was the one to start his descent. They fanned out, slowly circling him as he smooths down his jacket and rights his collar.

 

There are no words exchanged, no taunts and no threats. There is only a slight inhale, and then there is Camael’s trident dagger slicing through the air he had just occupied. The fight is on. Abdiel has the longest reach with his spear, Michael has the most power with his claymore, and Camael is an expensive annoyance darting in between attacks.

 

Lucifer goes on the defense, drawing his wings closer to his body to make a smaller target, gliding around blades like the snake he’s mistaken for. As it goes on, he realizes that they’ve forgotten what it’s like to fight another angel – they barely use their wings, they keep the fight mainly on ground level, they eschew their more angelic powers. And, more importantly, they’ve forgotten what it’s like to fight _him_.

 

Taking his time, he maneuvers so that Abdiel is closest and Camael is very nearly in the danger zone of Michael’s swing. Then, he shines with a light so bright that even God has to shield his eyes, and in one neat, clean movement, he disarms Abdiel and shoves Camael into Michael’s path with the butt of his stolen spear. Michael, off-balance from averting his blade is vulnerable, and while Camael is struck still by the close shave, he is off-guard. Easy as one, two, three. And, just to rub it in, he holds his wings to Mike and Cam’s throats to remind them that _oh, yes, we have razor-sharp appendages attached to our bodies_ while pointing the spear at Ab.

 

“You need to up the quality of your archangels, Dad. I’m afraid they’ve declined since I left.” Lucifer smirks at his brothers. Ab glares icily, and Mike – ever the warrior – is tense and ready to attack should he lower his guard.

 

“Fell, Betrayer. Thrown.” Cam hisses.

 

Lucifer makes sure to smile with every tooth gleaming perfectly. “Oh, yes. Do go on. It’s not as if I could split your throat if I were to accidentally twitch, or anything.”

 

“Enough, Samael.” The voice of God is quiet and unbearably loud.

 

Lucifer stiffens in response, and he can feel his eyes flashing fire. Good, maybe that’ll remind the old man that, _oh, yes, Sammy fell and Luci rose from his ashes_. “Don’t call me that. I’m not him. And don’t bother telling off these three for interrupting a friendly chat and wrecking the place.”

 

“Whereas your interruption of my audience and your damages rendered are blameless?” That’s amusement, hardy har har.

 

He shrugs. “Well, I _am_ the Devil. It’s kind of expected of me.”

 

“Michael, Abdiel, Camael. Cease. You may go. I will deal with your brother.”

 

Mike looks unhappy, but flaps away. Ab sullenly snatches his spear away and follows, pointing it threateningly at him. Cam, the sweetheart, has to get in one last dig; “Not a sibling. A mistake.”

 

Lucifer smiles thinly and makes sure to do a rude gesture in their direction. Then, he sticks his hands in his pants’ pockets and jaunts closer to the throne. There are still a few angels hanging around, wide-eyed or slant-eyed, and God waves them away with a few quiet words. The “church” is silent and empty apart from the ever-present strains of singing from the distance.

 

“So, after that very impolite disruption, I fear we’ve gotten a bit off-track. I would like an answer so that I know whether or not to gather up my forces – long and hard work that is, commanding armies.”

 

“You seek the soul of Chloe Decker.”

 

“Duh. I would never have come back here if not for her.”

 

“She is not here.”

 

He scoffs. “Well, she can’t be in Hell because her soul was much too pure for it. So she must be here. Don’t try hiding her from me; it won’t end well.”

 

“And there are only two pathways a soul can take?” Ugh, teaching moment – he thought he had outgrown those ages ago.

 

“You … you can’t be suggesting what I think you are.” For once, Lucifer is taken aback. He had come here, expecting to either get her or start up a family feud, but this was not something he had envisioned.

 

“I am.”

 

“Well, you’re God! You can get her back with a snap of your fingers!”

 

“I will not.”

 

“You will. If I have to kill every single one of your sons, if I have to throw them all into Hell, if I have to burn down Heaven around your ears, I will do anything it takes.” Ah, yes, now he’s on fire. Great.

 

Rather than looking any kind of put-out or threatened, God actually looks pleased. “Good. Perhaps you will prove yourself after all.”

 

“What?”

 

Lucifer had more to say, but there wasn’t time as he was being ejected quite without his consent from Heaven. Not under his own power, he was streaming, streaking towards another plane of existence, one adjacent to Hell but not touching; Purgatory, where he had never been able to go and never wanted to go. Purgatory was designed to mimic the Void, except added in terrors both metaphysical and existing. And it was where Chloe supposedly had gone to. Fan-fucking-tastic.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If it helps, I imagine Heaven as kind of like the Matrix. The "machines" are the angels, and everyone is hooked up together in one bit smorgasbord of experience. Of course, some people never meet others, but there is interaction between them. And their rooms in Heaven are like the pods the humans are kept in. The angels have their separate area from the humans, but still walk among them sometimes. I dunno, this might help or it might not. I don't even know what my version of Heaven totally looks like either. 
> 
> P.S. Trivia tidbit. Jophiel is the angel of wisdom, understanding, and judgement. When they laugh, it could be because they know what Lucifer's really after, or maybe they have less of a stick up their ass than their other siblings do. Maybe it's both. You decide.


	3. Passage 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone’s wondering where Amenadiel is, he left Heaven just before Lucifer got there. And why he didn’t answer Luci’s prayer? Well, he’s been burned before, and I bet Luci’s the kind of brother who would call him over the littlest things.

 

 

 

 

Breaking through another dimension is uncomfortable at the best of times. But when one is being shoved at the barrier by divine powers greater than one’s own, it is painful. And, adding the fact that he wasn’t designed to go to Purgatory in the first place, he was in danger of shaking apart under the strain. This barrier was malevolent, barbed with the intent of lashing out at anything in its reach; it did not take kindly to visitors. His light flickered, dimmed, almost went out, but then the barrier split open like an unforgiving wound and swallowed him up like a pair of lips.

 

Ah. So this is Purgatory. It wasn’t much to look at, just unending darkness in every direction. No gravity, no wind, no atmosphere, but at least there was the presence of Something rather than the Nothing of the Void. There were no pinprick light-sense of human souls, no push-pull of angelic presence, not even the low hum of flora and fauna. There was no knowledge of the stars, no universal awareness; there was him and only him, a singular light shining in the darkness. A light alerting beings who had never even heard of photons to his appearance there. If he remembers correctly, Purgatory was originally a prison for Mum and Dad’s creations before the Big Bang, and the occasional human soul slipped through the cracks of reality to land here. And, of course, Chloe had to be one of those lucky few.

 

But there were no signs of any beings. No signs of anything but deep dark. Was this actually Purgatory? Regardless, he was here now, so he might as well sweep the plane. Picking a direction, he wings away.

 

After a time, he can’t tell if he’s deviated from the direction, or even if he had moved at all. He had to have moved, he was flapping his great, white wings, wasn’t he? Yes. He was. So, he had to be moving. But to where?

 

In figuring out if he was moving, he lost the direction. Or did he? He feels like it was this way. Did that patch of darkness look familiar? Of course, it did, every patch of darkness looks the exact same.

 

This was Purgatory, yes? Strange, it feels just like the Void, except this time he’s not falling and driven by holy fire.

 

And, oh look! A human. Hello, human! They’re walking on the darkness, shambling really. There’s no pinprick of light from them, but they’re a human so they must have a little-bitty, tiny light somewhere. He reaches them quickly – hah! he _was_ moving – and flies around their front. Oh, yikes. Not human after all, or if it was, it is no longer. Its face isn’t a face so much as a gaping maw, their form is smoothed out to the bare minimum of humanity, they’ve turned a rather unflattering shade of black, and – oh, are those claws it has there?

 

It swipes said claws at him – naughty, naughty – and he dodges away. It’s quick, though, moving on all fours to spin and slash at him. He lazily swipes a wing at it and bisects the creature. Drat, now he’s got black blood on his feathers, which’ll be a right pain to get out.

 

He leaves it to its own devices and flaps away. There are more of those creatures everywhere – above, below, to the sides – because who needs floors when you’ve got the fabric of reality to cling to? He makes it a game of slicing off their heads Queen-of-Hearts-style as he passes, performing flawless barrel rolls and divebombs. Even that gets old soon, and he’s getting a rather large mob of them trying to follow in his wake, so he stops massacring the locals.

 

Sometime after, he notices that there are invisible dips in the fabric, like pits dug into the side of the spacetime continuum. The pits are jagged tears to his senses, so he goes down one just to see what he’ll find. Ah. Trouble.

 

In this particular pit, a very large monster is captured; its coloring is, surprisingly, black. It resembles a skyscraper-sized worm with recognizable facial features – four small eyes and a large mouth full of rows of teeth appearing to go back to a third of its total length. It roars at him – not like there’s any sound in this place – and whip-like tentacles, perhaps hundreds of them, shoot out from somewhere near its gullet. Ugh, gross. He flips and flaps and slices and dices. The wormageddon is lithe and wriggly, but unfortunately for it, it lacks the ability to cling to the fabric like its lesser neighbors can. So, airborne as he is, he can weave around it and slash to his heart’s content. And his heart is only contented when the creature lies unmoving and twitching slightly at the bottom of its pit.

 

Wanting to wipe off his shoes somewhere, he departs. What was he doing in this nasty place anyway? He gives himself a mental shrug and pats himself metaphorically on the back for a job well done. There is more darkness to explore, an infinite plane of it, full of creatures to kill and blood to let. Wasn’t that why he was here? To bring death to the unliving? It was and will always be his purpose. He is of blindness and poison and death, the avenger seeking revenge, and the end of times.

 

There is a mountain in the distance – well, more like an inverted pit except there is no up and down here but it looks like a mountain so that’s what he’ll call it – and for lack of a better target, flies towards it. Then, he gets a bright idea. At the tipitty-top of the “mountain” he lights a beacon on his skin.

 

Hello? Hello, monsters of the deep? Come and play, please.

 

And then, he finds out that it is not, in fact, a mountain underneath his well-polished oxfords. No, it’s another one of these creatures of shadow and ink, children of mold and reviled things. This one, though, it has wings. The wings that had been folded around it giving it the appearance of crags. Wings that unfold and beat at the air savagely, buffeting him in spawned gales. It is giant, with a vaguely-humanoid body – its wings are rocky, its skin is smoky; it shimmers as if not quite rooted in this reality. Its limbs are equipped with claw-like tentacles that form thousands of shapes, and its head is made of the same. The tentacles twist and some things it creates are beyond description or ken. This is no mere beast – or rather, it is the ultimate beast. It is fast, strong, adaptable, master of every medium possible – and it is mesmerizing in the wonderterror it evokes.

 

It makes noise, somehow it does, but not noise that the ears translate; it is noise that can only be felt – in shudders and rumbles and prey behaviors. The noise is a terrible screech both shrill and gravelly bass at once. It knows he is here and does not like him.

 

The Beast’s call does what his did not – more denizens of this rotting wasteland rise from the blackness, roaring, shrieking, grinding, running, flying, crawling. The blackness is blotted out by the moving figures; they jostle each other, jockeying for a closer position. Enemies now eclipse his vision, and deep down he knows this is not a fight he will win. His core thrums, vibrating out fearknowledge.

 

They are closing in on him, and the Beast seems to laugh. His skin is flickering, alternating between red and white and black. When did the black get there? The darkness grows teeth and claws, sharp hunger and savage glee, and something growls and something howls and there is no noise there is no nothing there is no light. No light. But as the darkness encroaches upon him, something implodes at his center and then he explodes outward, searing away the darkness in a wash of lightfire.

 

When he regains his senses, he is holding his flaming sword aloft – white-then-red-then-white fire crackles along the blade and it shines like a star. Yes, that feels right. He is the Morningstar, the Lightbringer – in darkness, he is the spark of life and the origin of light. He is more than the end of things, he is also the beginning. And shadows are nothing to the burning of a thousand fiery suns. His sword rises and beams outward, seeking out and purifyingpurging every dark thing.

 

The Beast screams and looms over him, grown bigger than a universe and somehow untouched by his light. It has morphed into a seething mass with writhing pairs of haphazard wings; it has seven heads, then ten, the one, then seven; it is everything and every unknown at once.

 

His wings are strong and his sword pommel is warm. But Glory cannot win this battle – it is a creation force, not meant for destruction. To destroy, to unmake and bring low, that is the work of Hell. Yes, that feels right. He is the Devil, the Adversary, the Prince of Darkness; he was given sovereignty over the dark and he would not be beaten by it. The fire on his sword turns black and then it disappears. His wings darken, largen, and become leathery, then scaly. His shape roils, slithering outward and firming. He bellows, and real sound echoes forever in the wasteland.

 

He is bigger than the Beast, but it grows to match him in size. Black fire drips from his maw, his wings beat the fabric of reality away, his talons can crush galaxies with a thought. The Beast wavers, perhaps feeling fear for once in its miserable existence. He roars again, this time in challenge. It screeches back, and the battle begins. They rake at each other’s flesh, dip in and out of reality, bite and slice and flap and rage. And then, he gains the upper hand; he flames at it, black against black, lighting an inferno on its oily skin that causes the Beast to flinch and falter. He tears off its writhing masses of heads and burns everything for a long eternity until the Beast burns to a lump of cinders, and even that is dispersed by one flap of his wings. He hovers in the dark, but it is not quite dark anymore – it is empty and full of Nothing; all the creatures have been purged.

 

Yes, purged, for that is the purpose of Purgatory. His scales melt away and he is left human as he finally remembers why he had come here. _Chloe_. How had he forgotten?

 

His sword rests in its scabbard attached to a rather unfashionable belt. Of course, it had come to him; it was his and him, and when it’s able to slice through dimensions, there was nowhere he could send it that it would not come back from, silly bearer. He strokes his hand over the hilt once, twice, then draws it and fills the Nothing with light. His gaze sweeps across the plane, but she is not here. Was this truly Purgatory?

 

The answer does not matter. He slices the fabric in front of him, and steps through.

 

_/`\\_

 

He exits into Heaven, in the audience chamber where God is waiting for him.

 

“Give her to me.” It is a relief to hear sounds again and to see, even if it is his bastard of a father.

 

“You have done well, my son.” God dares to smile at him.

 

“Fuck that. I’ve done your trials, played your sick game. Give her to me or I will smite you where you stand.”

 

God evaluates him for a time, then nods slowly; then, he raises his arm, and in his palm appears a brilliant light – not white, but colorless. It lacked the frailty of a typical human soul, the colorations and discolor from a life lived. But it wasn’t an angel soul, either – those had spiraling trails of ever-changing light and were much larger and more solid. Even as a miracle, her soul had only been brighter than a regular human’s.

 

“What is she? What have you _done_ to her?” He was furious. If he had done all that just to find out that she no longer _existed_ … then there would be Hell to pay.

 

“She is as she was always meant to be.” Enigmatic as ever, the old coot.

 

“And what’s that?”

 

“A miracle. A spark of divinity given natural free will. A pre-formed angel given choice.”

 

Lucifer blinked. Blinked again. Tried to parse the words one at a time, then all together to try and eke out some sense of it all. “Excuse me? Run that by me one more time.”

 

“She is an experiment. My experiment. I wanted to create a divine being that already possessed free will. After her mortal life, she was to be given an immortal one. After what you experienced, all the growing pains and doubt, I wanted to ease that transition for others.”

 

Lucifer wasn’t sure if that was a slight softening of his emotions towards his Father, or if it was blinding anger at Dad being too late like always. No, it was definitely anger. “There were no _growing pains_! What pain there was, was because of you and your inflated opinion of your blasted superiority! You _cast me out_ , Father, for a simple question. Me, your eldest, who you’re _not_ supposed to fail! And you’re _still_ fucking with me. _Oh, let’s put this miracle child in his path, get him to care about it, then rip the carpet out from underneath his fucking feet_. I mean, it’s one thing to go all hands-off with me, but then you need to keep to it and not meddle! What were you –”

 

“I did not place Chloe Decker on Earth simply to interact with you.” God’s voice rings out, thundering and just like old times. “That was unintended. I merely caused her birth; everything after is not my doing. Blame me if you must, but I am not the cause of everything you hate. Your expectations of me are founded in your ideas of me, not _of_ me.”

 

Ah. Didn’t that sound familiar. Well, fuck. He clears his throat. “Perhaps.” He’ll give the old man that much, at least.

 

That cuts off God’s tirade, and the supreme being looks caught off guard for possibly the first time in literally forever. “Ah.” Awkward silence.

 

“Soo, I’ll just take her and not come back here for, say, an eternity, yeah?”

 

“You do realize that she was designed to be of Heaven?”

 

“Yeah, and?”

 

“And I believe the good Detective would surely attempt to enact bodily harm upon my person again if I forbade any contact between you two.” That’s a smile, an honest-to-God smile that really looks like his own.

 

“Uh.” Lucifer blinks, very unsure of what is happening, and not altogether liking it. _Again_?

 

“So, I am opening Heaven to you once again. Should you visit her, or she visit you, or you two abscond to Earth together, I will not interfere. And perhaps I will alert your siblings of this change so that no one gets stabbed in the future.”

 

“You’re a bloody bastard, you know that?” Lucifer breathes.

 

“I believe it runs in the family.”

 

“Touché.” He reaches for the strange light, only to be set back. Again.

 

“Before you take her, you must know that she might not want to come with you. I have found that human souls, once departed, are rarely eager to re-enter the moral coil.”

 

“I’m not letting her go that easily. I was promised a conversation, or promised to have one, and the Devil always follows up on his verbal contracts.”

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first creature in Purgatory is loosely based on the Leviathans from Supernatural, as well as the Molded from Resident Evil 7: Biohazard. The second is loosely based on Evie’s final form from RE7 mixed with Serleena’s final form from Men In Black 2 and the Reaper Leviathan from Subnautica. The third is somewhat based on Chernabog from Fantasia, the Cthulhu mythos from Lovecraft, and the Beast from Revelation. 
> 
> Yes, Lucifer did turn into a dragon and bite the head off that Cthulhu-ass monster. I’m real proud. 
> 
> I like the idea that God and Lucifer are more alike than they seem. So I gave them some general resentment at being blamed for things outside their doing, and a few of the same speech patterns.


	4. Passage 4

 

 

 

 

Lucifer touches the light of Detective Chloe Decker and is immediately sucked into it. _Bugger_ , he thinks, _I hope accidental warping isn’t going to become an unfortunate habit of mine_. That is all he has time to think before he is thrown violently into a scene.

 

It is a grungy-looking convenience store or something along those lines. In front of him is who he assumes to be John Decker being killed. The scene repeats. The actor dies. The audience is a blond girl staring at her father’s fall. The dialogue is _nonopleasenodaddydon’tgodaddypleaseno_. The actor dies. His costar runs into the night. The scene repeats. The murderer escapes from the store. Except, no, he doesn’t. Lucifer clotheslines the man and kneels down next to the little girl. He touches her shoulder. Her eyes focus, or seem to focus, on him; she cries silently. He hugs her. No words are needed.

 

The play moves on.

 

The scene is Palmetto. There is Malcolm, the greasy bastard character. Gunshots. Rejection. Determination. Malcolm, separation, flatline. He strides over to where Chloe is pressed up against the wall and tugs her away; she stumbles, but gains back her balance as a machine beeps in the distance.

 

The play moves on.

 

The scene is a desert, and the moisture is wicked from his body immediately. He feels unclean, gritty, perforated by thousands of tiny meteors; he feels left forgotten by time and space. This is not one of her memories, but one of his. Wings move underneath his skin, shoving away muscle and reforming old ones. Wanting to be born again, wings slice through his skin, bursting from his back and he screams in agony. He sobs dryly in relief, because the wings had been in pain as they formed and were trapped inside him. Sweat, something he didn’t know he was able of, drips from his face, into his eyes, down to the dirt. Loss of water, gone in sweat and blood and those pesky tears he can’t tell the cause of. The wings flap by themselves, flicking and sluicing his blood away. They spread, proud, out from him, glorious and unwanted. They are not a part of him; they are alien and should not be here. He had forsaken them and everything they stood for. Was this some kind of a sick joke? He is reminded of another time, still sandy and bloody when his wings were the focus. The scene repeats. Sand, sun, pain, wings, blood, mistake. Sweat, leaking bodily fluids, _soul-deep relief because maybe his dad still loves him but that shouldn’t matter these wings weren’t a gift they were a control and not his anymore but he still feels whole and maybe slightly loved but he hates it and him and –_

 

He screams, his wings break free of their own volition and carry him away from the desert. When he finds himself again,

 

The play moves on.

 

The scene is that warehouse. He sees himself dying on the cold concrete floor while Malcolm searches for his quarry. Before it can go any farther, he slices off Malcolm’s head with a feather, gathers the child and her mother, and leads them away. He does not look at either of the bodies again.

 

The play moves on.

 

The scene is Heaven. Another one of his, then, strangely. It is before his fall. There he is, glorious and Heaven’s favorite son. He’d forgotten he had been blond and blue-eyed. Not a great look on him – he was glad he changed it after. Samael is talking to God, and God is terrible in his wrath. Father bellows for the Host to strike him down. God breaks his wings with his own two hands. Michael literally stabs him in the back, but hesitates to push him over the edge. Abdiel coldly kicks him off the lip and into the Void. He is alone – no fallen angels following him into battle; just him, against all of his brothers, alone and reeling, alone and deeply betrayed. Burning, falling, Void. Samael being stripped of his name, of his home, of his family. Alone.

 

The play doesn’t move on.

 

The scene is still Heaven, but it is paused at the moment he realizes he’s going to fall, his face a terrible mix of emotions. And he sees something he hadn’t before – the beginnings of what looks like regret on his Father’s face. Huh. There’s something strange lodged in his chest and it feels almost like … an _emotion_.

 

“Lucifer.”

 

He turns, and there she is. Finally. “Chloe.”

 

She’s watching the scene, something unreadable lurking behind her eyes. “You’re here. Where is here?”

 

“Um. Well. That doesn’t matter. I’m here to bring you home, to get you back to Dan and Trixie and detectiving.” He has to remind himself that souls are not a person; the person has to be recovered before re-entry.

 

“Trixie?” The soul frowns, eyebrows knitting together.

 

“Your daughter. Yours and the Douche’s. Daniel, I mean.” Names seem to be helping.

 

“Yes, daughter. I have a daughter.” Dreamlike, the soul nods.

 

“And an ex-husband who really can’t take care of her by himself. He’s quite hopeless, actually, which is why I had my brother and a minion look after them.”

 

The soul laughs, surprising them both. She smiles.

 

“And you have a job to get back to. No one catches the bad guys like you. And you need to take care of your partner, too. He’s too much of a handful for anyone else, not to mention how attached he is to you.”

 

The smile disappears, but the soul appears thoughtful. “Detective. Partner. You’re my partner.”

 

“Yes.” He doesn’t quite follow where she’s going with this.

 

“Partners have trust. You never trusted me. I want you to go.”

 

Ah, there’s the rub. “I’m not leaving you, Chloe, not this time.”

 

“Liar!” She shouts, and the world rumbles, reminding him that he is very much under her power at the moment.

 

“I’ve never once lied to you, Chloe. Give me a chance to explain, please. You’re my partner. Trust in me.” She softens a little, wavering between justified anger and her ingrained sense of trust built up by their years together. “Fine.”

 

“Thank you. But we can’t talk here. You have to go back. I’ll take you there, but you have to agree first.”

 

“Back. Back to Trixie.” She sways a bit, focus drifting like the wind. “Yes. Yes, I’ll go back.”

 

_/`\\_

 

Lucifer rockets through Heaven, leaving confused angels and disturbed soul-fog in his wake. Joyous, his wings sing through the air and slice easily through the interdimensional barriers. He has her, and she’s going to live again. That makes everything worth it. The barrier to Earth welcomes him back, and he pops out above L.A., and he knows the route to Penelope’s house by heart.

 

Landing by the stoop, he remembers to knock this time. He hears voices, a series of thumps and bangs, then the door is flung wide open and hellspawn attacks. The spawn wraps around his leg and looks up at him with large brown eyes.

 

“Lucifer!”

 

“Yes, hello, child. Please let me go.” She giggles and shakes her head. He looks beyond her to see Aziraphale and Crowley looking quite the worse for wear and a trail of destruction leading to the door.

 

“Ah, yes. Mighty protectors, letting a small child answer the door in a crisis.”

 

Az looks sheepish, Crowley fixes his sunglasses.

 

“But I knew it was you! And I wanted to see you first.”

 

“It has been a rather … trying day for us. But what about you? Did you do the thing?” Az hedges. There’s a Lego brick stuck in his hair, and Lucifer suspects there might be more.

 

“Mission accomplished. And, look, I’ve even got a shiny toy for my troubles.” He shakes his hip. Both demon and angel look a bit pale. “Is Dan about?”

 

“He’s downstairs, boss. Something about making sure the temperature stays down.” Crowley offers, eyeing the spawn warily as she detaches from his leg and wanders around the room freely.

 

“Marvelous. You two are free to go.”

 

“There won’t be any backlash? From above or below?” Always the worrier, Az.

 

“Nope. No problems. In fact, I get the feeling Dad quite approved of my little jaunt.” With a smile, he saunters over to the basement stairs.

 

He opens the door and lets out a veritable blast of cold air. The cellar is concrete and unfinished; Dan is huddled in the corner watching an icebox.

 

“What are you doing down here, Daniel? I don’t want to have to come after you should you ice yourself to the floor.”

 

Dan violently starts, or it could just be the shivers. “Lucifer, man, you’re back! Did – did everything go okay?”

 

“Splendidly. Now off you pop, before you freeze off what little chance there is for Trixie Two.”

 

Dan refuses to rise to the bait, but does as he’s told. Lucifer is left with the freezer. Inside is the Detective. He takes her out and gently places her on the floor.

 

He reaches towards his chest, past the flesh and bone, into unreality. She had withdrawn in the flight, and hovered, dormant, centered around where his heart was in the physical dimension. He wraps a hand around her, making sure to catch every last speck that wasn’t him, and drags her slowly from his body. She doesn’t quite want to go, but he nudges her along until his hand is pressed against her real abdomen. Then, he begins the long and excruciatingly tedious task of remapping her connections. She tries to help, but she tries to latch onto the old connections that were simply not there anymore. Eventually, though, he is done, and she sinks back into herself with something akin to a sigh.

 

He settles back on his heels, watching carefully. A process as complex as returning a soul to their body does run some risks of complications and such. It takes her soul a second to reorient, but melds in completely. She reboots, fingers twitching slightly. Before she comes back online, he places a feather on the wound so that it doesn’t kill her. Again. That would be a pain for both of them.

 

She opens her eyes, and he’s really quite extraordinarily happy, so it’s very understandable that he fidgets in place, beaming like an idiot.

 

“Lucifer?”

 

“In the flesh!”

 

“Why is it so cold in here?”

 

“Yes, that’ll be a part of the very long conversation we’ll have very soon, believe you me. But first, perhaps you would like to attend to your family, eh? I know that Daniel was particularly bereft. I might also need to shepherd an angel and a demon to the fine Doctor Linda for emotional and physical trauma.”

 

“Who –  never mind. It's a deal.”

 

"Excellent."

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the soul-dreams, Lucifer totally didn’t have to lead Trixie away from the warehouse, but he totally did so anyway. Their relationship gives me life. 
> 
> I’ll probably add in Chloe’s experience, like why she threatened God. And/or Crowley and Aziraphale’s, and see just what Trixie did to the poor guys. There will most likely be a sequel. Thoughts?


End file.
